


paragon

by oryx



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two conversations with swords in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taichara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/gifts).



> fe4 is a new fandom for me & i'm not entirely sure how to write these characters yet - hopefully it worked out alright ;;

Raquesis’ eyes are intent as she slashes at the air, jaw clenched tight, lips set in a thin line. Sweat is beading on her brow as she jabs low, and Eldigan can tell that she is imagining an opponent in front of her, envisioning their deft footwork and parries.

 

“I hear you cut short your meeting with Lord Damon,” he says.

 

Raquesis pauses mid-swing. She slowly lowers her blade, breath coming quick. “He simply would not stop talking about his awful hobbies,” she says, with a ‘tsk’ of disapproval. “I detest hunting for sport. Watching things die is by far the lowest form of entertainment. And hearing a recount of every animal he’s ever slaughtered was not my idea of stimulating conversation.”

 

Eldigan blinks. “Well. I’ll admit, that… certainly does not sound promising. What about Lord Sevinus, though? What, pray tell, was wrong with _him_?”

 

For a time, Raquesis is silent. And then, finally:

 

“I found his cologne overbearing.”

 

Eldigan sighs and rubs his temples tiredly. “You know, dear sister, one might think you were _looking_ for reasons to reject them. These suitors are all men I know, from the Court or from my days at the Academy. They may not be perfect, but they are all good men at heart. If you would just give them a chance…”

 

“What is the rush?” Raquesis asks. She raises an eyebrow. “Is my Lord Brother so eager to see me married off and gone from his home?”

 

“Please. You know such a thought has never crossed my mind. But people are…” Here he pauses, clearing his throat awkwardly, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “People are beginning to talk.”

 

Raquesis stares at him for a moment before laughing aloud. “Brother, for all that you are wise in the ways of politics, it seems you are rather oblivious to gossip. People have _been_ talking. And they always will, no matter how soon I marry, or how far away from your side I might stray. That is simply the way of things. And I am surprised that you would concern yourself with the opinions of others.”

 

“Personally, I care little,” Eldigan says. “But… I worry for your future, Raquesis.” He reaches out to take her free hand, and her palm is warm from where she gripped her sword. “What if this _hearsay_ were to stand in the way of your happiness? I could not forgive myself for that. And you know… When Ares was born, I thought to myself how good it would be if our children could grow up together. I kept envisioning that you might have a girl. And when they were older Ares would teach her swordplay, just as I did for you.”

 

“Ah, but you only taught me because Father would not let me take lessons from the swordmaster,” Raquesis says with a wry smile. “‘Improper,’ he called it, for a sweet young princess to take up the blade. But really, Eldigan, you’re speaking like a sentimental old man. Time is not running out. Ares is still a _baby_ , for Hezul’s sake. There is plenty of time yet for our children to grow up together.

 

“But,” she continues, “just to mollify you, perhaps I will give Lord Sevinus another chance? On one condition, though.” She takes a swift step back and lifts her sword once more, settling into a battle-ready stance, a playful glint in her eye. “Win against me, right here and now.”

 

Eldigan can feel an exasperated smile tug at his lips. “Everything must come down to a duel with you, mustn’t it? My win count is far higher than yours, you know. Eighty-some to ten, if I’m not mistaken. Do you really expect to beat me?”

 

“One never knows until they try,” she says. There is a sly, confident edge to her smile. “Now draw your blade, brother, and face me.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Eldigan sighs, amused, as his hand strays for the hilt of his sword. “If my dear sister commands it, then how can I possibly refuse?”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Often his eyes are drawn to the sword strapped to Nanna’s back – a strange thing for a petite young girl to carry with her, particularly a girl trained in the healing arts and little else.

 

One afternoon, as the army marches across a flat stretch of scrubland, he draws his mount up alongside hers.

 

“That blade,” he says. “It is… rather odd, is it not?”

 

Nanna turns to look at him and smiles warmly. “Oh, yes. It is called the Earth Sword, and it is one of a kind, as far as I know. It was a gift from my mother.”

 

‘My mother,’ she says, and a voice in Ares’ mind whispers _my aunt_. It is so strange, to think that he has _family_ now. He has always known that they must exist somewhere – other descendants of the noble house of Nordion. But the idea of meeting them, speaking to them, seeing their faces that so closely resemble his own, has always been little more than a distant dream.

 

“It is not the kind of blade you pierce someone with,” Nanna is saying. “It has the power to steal someone’s very lifeforce, and use it to heal its wielder. …Or so my mother used to tell me. I wonder, sometimes, if it was all a tall tale.” She laughs sheepishly. “It seems a tad farfetched, doesn’t it? That such an ungainly sword could do something like that?”

 

Ares stares the sword for a moment, contemplative.

 

“… May I hold it?” he asks. “If that is not too much of an imposition?”

 

“Oh,” Nanna says, a tad taken aback. “No, no, I don’t mind at all. Here.” She reaches over her shoulder to loosen the straps of her pack, pulling the blade free, struggling a bit under its weight as she hands it to him.

 

Were he not on horseback, he could get a better feel for the blade – testing its balance and the ease of its swing. But even so, it is obviously a finely-crafted weapon. Finely-crafted, ancient… and strange. Ares runs a hand along the flat of the sword, fingertips catching on the minute cracks in the metal – cracks that seem to have been put there purposely. It is certainly not a blade meant for piercing; Nanna was right about that. The odd, rounded head could perhaps serve as a bludgeon, but any breaking of skin would be purely coincidental.

 

But by far the strangest thing about the sword is the feeling he gets as he holds it. A feeling of displeasure and rejection. As if it had a mind of its own, and were desperately trying to leap from his hand.

 

A sword that does not want to be wielded by anyone but its rightful owner.

 

“It is a bizarre thing,” he says, holding it out so that Nanna may take it back. “But… powerful, I think. I would not be surprised if it did possess the power your mother spoke of.”

 

“You really think so?” Nanna’s eyes are wide. She turns her gaze to the blade and examines it thoughtfully. “Something like that would certainly be quite an asset… Though I’m afraid I don’t have the physical strength to use a sword, even one so special.” She smiles sadly. “Alas, that is one thing I did not inherit from my mother.”

 

“A lack of physical strength can be overcome,” Ares says, “as long as one knows the basics of swordsmanship. Stances, footwork, grip… All are more important than brute strength in the long run.” Ares pauses. How many times had Jabarro spoken those very same words to him as a boy? To think he would find himself parroting them back, all these years later. “I could… I could teach you, if you wish.”

 

Nanna stares at him. As a child his mother used to tell him stories about his father and his aunt, about their bond that she had equal parts envied and admired, and he had always imagined Raquesis looking just as Nanna does now. The golden hair, the blue eyes, the delicate features… Her face is nostalgic, somehow, despite their recent meeting.

 

“You would do that for me?” Nanna says softly.

 

“…Of course,” Ares says, clearing his throat. “We are… family, are we not?”

 

He averts his eyes, then, focusing intently on the road ahead, but he can feel the weight of Nanna’s bright smile all the same.


End file.
